Knights Magi (Book 4)

by Terry Mancour

  “We don’t know why we’re here,” Kaffin said in disgust. There was a murmur of agreement. “If it was cheating, then I’m not even in the same level classes as most of you,” he pointed out.

  “I think we’re getting drafted,” Jesden said, suddenly terrified. “There’s that war, and those two warmagi—”

  “Knights Magi,” Kaffin said, earnestly. “And don’t you forget it!” Tyndal was surprised to hear such a defense coming from a boy he’d beaten so soundly. Maybe these academic magi weren’t so bad after all.

  “We could be getting conscripted,” Daris agreed, his eyes darting back and forth in a calculating manner. “I heard the Knights Magi were headed to Relan Cor after this. They might be recruiting.”

  “Oh, shit!” moaned Jesdan.

  “Oh, relax,” Bandran of Gars insisted, leaning back and closing his eyes. “Just appreciate the fact you’re not in class right now.”

  “That just means more reading later!” someone else moaned.

  “What a bunch of whiny little girls,” Tyndal whispered to Master Secul in amused disgust.

  “Do you recognize any of them?” the master asked.

  “Well, yes, I’ve seen most of them around campus. But can I tell who did it by looking at them? No. He wore gloves and a mask. He didn’t speak. He was enshadowed.”

  “Did any of them seem suspiciously guilty?” offered Secul.

  “No,” shrugged Tyndal. “But they’re in their teens. You don’t feel guilty about anything in your teens,” he grinned.

  Master Secul rolled his eyes. “Very well,” he whispered. “I had hoped to spot the miscreant before we addressed them, but . . . that, young man, gave me an idea.”

  A few moments later Secul and Tyndal walked into the room, each of them holding a roll of parchment. Tyndal did his best to appear his normal self. He liked this idea.

  “Gentlemen,” he began. “As you are aware, there is a war on. The King has requested that the Arcane Orders identify young, talented magi still in academy for potential military training.” There were gasps and oaths from around the room. “To this end,” Tyndal continued, pleasantly, “we’d like you to write down in your own words what kind of service you could foresee yourselves doing, based on your own assessment of your Talents and skills.”

  “Are we getting graded on this?” moaned Kaffin.

  “Ishi’s tits! Are we going tonight?” Bandran said, anxiously.

  “I’m too young to die!” Jesdan squealed.

  “Calm down, gentlemen,” Tyndal continued, “there are no immediate plans to conscript you – we’re merely preparing for the possibility. And hearing from yourselves how you think you would best serve your King and country is the place to start. If you don’t think you’d make a good warmage, tell us why.”

  “I’m going to need more parchment!” wailed Jesdan.

  He passed out the sheaf of parchment and provided ink and quills to the students, then . . . then sat back and watched.

  “What are you watching for?” Master Secul whispered.

  “I have no idea,” Tyndal said, confidently, his voice hushed. “But the Psychomantic grimoires I’ve read have stressed the importance of keen observation of human behavior. Since that’s about what I’m left with . . .”

  Master Secul nodded. But as Tyndal sat and watched the boys struggle through their military assessment, his heart sank. If any of them were guilty of the crime, they were hiding it splendidly.

  One by one they blew their parchments dry – or used magic to dry them, if they were skilled enough – and then put them in Tyndal’s hand.

  “I don’t want to die,” Jesdan said, in a daze as he handed in his short assessment.

  “That’s an outstanding attitude for a warrior to have,” Tyndal nodded, sagely, as he took the bookish boy’s parchment.

  “I’m not afraid,” Kaffin of Gyre said, boldly, handing his in next. “I fear nothing!”

  “That can also be an asset, for certain missions,” Tyndal admitted. Not the kind of missions Tyndal liked.

  Bandran scowled as he turned his in. “I’ve a lucrative prospect as a resident adept, if the war doesn’t get in the way,” he said, angrily.

  “No one has asked you to do anything but write,” Master Secul pointed out.

  “It’s not that bad,” Daris of Holden’s Mead said, trying to appear casual. “But I’m not cut out or army life. My uncle was killed in the battles last year. Torchwood? Torchmont? Someplace like that?”

  “Timberwatch,” Tyndal corrected. “I’m sorry. I was there.”

  “Never liked my uncle much,” shrugged Daris, handing Tyndal his sheet.

  “So,” Master Secul said, as the last boy reluctantly turned in his paper and then filed out of the Enchanter’s Hall. “That seemed a waste of time.”

  “Not necessarily,” Tyndal said as he rifled through the parchment scraps. “If the thief is among them, then they saw me here acting as if nothing was wrong, not acting in the panic I really want to indulge in right now. That has to be confusing. And if not . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Then think how happy the warmagi at Relan Cor will be that I got these self-assessments from the rising class at Inarion,” he said, smiling weakly.

  “Yes, one never tires of the prospect of hearing of some bright young mind you’ve nurtured and instructed for years go off and get slaughtered,” the master said, sarcastically.

  * * *

  “Any luck?” Tyndal asked hopefully, when he returned to his room.

  “The thief did not leave the premises with the stone,” Rondal declared. “Of that I am certain. And if he tries to move it away from here, I’ll know about it, since I warded every possible travel route. Apart from that, I can’t tell you anything.”

  “What?” Tyndal asked, his eyes wide. “It’s still here?”

  “It hasn’t been removed from within a mile, I should say,” Rondal said, stretching out on his bed. “So it’s still close-by. But shielded. It took all morning to figure out that much.”

  “But if it’s here, then . . . well, someone is hiding it!”

  “Yes, when you cannot find something that someone took,” he reasoned with exaggerated patience, “it’s usually because someone is hiding it. Damn clever of them, too.”

  “All right, enough abuse,” complained Tyndal. “Of course they’re going to hide it—”

  “No,” Rondal interrupted. “I mean they really were damn clever. Wherever they stashed it, it’s hidden from simple scrying. And it’s hidden from intensive scrying. In fact, I can’t even find it in the Otherworld. It’s cloaked.”

  “You can’t?” Tyndal asked, confused. “But . . .”

  “Yes, I know,” sighed the other apprentice. “More shadowmagic. I hate shadowmagic. That stuff complicates everything.”

  “You don’t say,” Tyndal said, dryly.

  “You don’t still think it was one of the students? Or one of the staff?”

  “I haven’t ruled out anyone but you . . . and it wouldn’t be fair to the others if I didn’t consider you a suspect, too.”

  “I’ve already got a witchstone, why would I want another?”

  “I didn’t say you were a good suspect, I just said it wouldn’t be fair,” Tyndal said, a little annoyed.

  “Am I interrupting?” came an amused female voice from the door. Estasia. As much as he enjoyed her company, he was a bit annoyed she was there. He liked to present his best side to a girl, and that was hard to do when you were half-mad with rage and magically crippled.

  But she was more than just a sympathetic ear. She was a good mage, a brilliant mage, by all accounts. She was helpful.

  “Just my slow descent into madness,” groaned Tyndal. “What do you want?”

  “That’s no way to treat a guest, Sir Tyndal!” Rondal complained, quickly standing. “Sire Cei would be ashamed! What can we help you with, my lady?” he asked. :You have news?”

  She snorted at Tyndal’s display.
“I just thought you’d be interested to know that the remnants in the glass vial found in the courtyard were not, in fact, Bardain.”

  “Ah!” Tyndal said, triumphantly. “Then you were wrong!”

  “No,” the comely alchemy student said, patiently, “there was plenty of Bardain in your vomit, that part I got exactly right. I just said that the residue in the glass in the yard wasn’t Bardain. But it was even more intriguing. It was Lanlinyeir.”

  “What . . . is Lanlinyeir?” asked Rondal, sparing Tyndal the task.

  “It’s a highly exotic, extremely rare herbal extract from some island somewhere,” she said. “I spent hours tracking it down. It’s only mentioned a handful of times anywhere.”

  “So what does it do?” Tyndal asked. “Shadowmagic?”

  “No. It makes you forget.”

  “What?” Tyndal asked confused.

  “Like that, exactly,” Estasia teased. “It makes you forget everything that has happened in the last twelve to fourteen hours. Essentially everything that you experienced from the time you woke up that morning,” she explained.

  “But I remember everything!” Tyndal protested. “What kind of stupid herbal extract is that?”

  “It’s actually quite useful, hence the ‘rare and exotic’ nature of the substance. But you’re right – you do remember everything from that night. So it wasn’t used on you.”

  “Then who?” Rondal frowned.

  “The thief used it on himself,” Estasia proclaimed, entering their room unbidden. “It takes fifteen or twenty minutes to take effect, but after that, you won’t remember anything that happened after sunrise.”

  “Why would the thief use it on himself? That’s even more confusing!” Tyndal said, angrily. He had a thick warwand in his hand he continuously smacked into his palm. The young woman watched with a mixture of horror and fascination.

  “Stop, slow down, relax,” Estasia said, soothingly, closing her hand over his to still his wand. “You aren’t thinking this through. It was actually very clever – very clever indeed.”

  “Why is it clever to steal a witchstone and then forget where you put it?”

  “I was perplexed about that myself, until I figured it out. The thief didn’t take the potion to forget where they put it,” Estasia reasoned. “The thief took it so that he would forget he was a thief.”

  “I . . . what?” Rondal asked. Tyndal was gratified that he wasn’t the only one confused. If his brainy fellow apprentice didn’t follow the bewitching student’s reasoning, he didn’t feel so bad about his own failure.

  “Look at it from his perspective,” the pretty alchemist said, taking a seat on the one chair the boys shared. “You want to steal a witchstone, but you know – with absolute certainty – that the moment you do, you’re going to be a suspect. Possibly subjected to torture or execution if you’re exposed. How do you steal the stone and then avoid revealing that you stole it under heavy questioning? How do you even avoid suspicion?”

  “By . . . not having a guilty conscience,” Rondal said, finally understanding. “If you don’t remember the crime, you can’t fee guilty about it!”

  “Exactly,” she smiled. “You’re smarter than you look,” she tossed at Rondal. The idiot beamed like a puppy who was patted on the head. Then she ignored him and spoke directly to Tyndal.

  “Let’s go back over what we know about the crime. When the thief stole the witchstone, they had to know where Tyndal was, when he would be alone in his room, and that he would not be disturbed long enough to complete the theft.”

  “Then they had to poison me,” Tyndal reminded her.

  “Right,” she agreed. “And that could have happened at any time yesterday. Bardain can take a few hours to work. But it works slower on some than others. So they had to keep watch on you, somehow, and then wait until it had taken effect enough to get you back to your room.”

  “That wouldn’t be too hard,” reasoned Rondal, staring at the alchemist. “He’s not exactly . . . subtle.”

  “No, he is not,” Estasia agreed, amused. “So someone was watching you. Did anyone seem to be following you around or watching you more than usual yesterday?”

  “That’s not exactly the kind of thing I keep track of,” Tyndal said, annoyed. “I may have an ego, but I’m not in love with myself that much.”

  “Let’s assume they watched you from afar. They saw you head back to your room. They had to know that you would not be joined. What were you doing when he was being robbed?” she asked Rondal, suddenly.

  “Me?” he asked, surprised. “I was in the Scriptorum, copying a scroll on Thaumaturgy. Why?”

  “Who was with you?”

  “No one,” Rondal said, his lips pursed. “There were other people there, but no one was really with me.”

  “So you could have been watched,” she nodded. “But . . . not by the same person who was watching Tyndal, I expect. Not if they had to know where both of you were at the same time.

  “He had to be alone. He had to be in his room. He had to be drugged. They had to have a means of getting into his room without being spotted. Once those conditions were met, all he had to do was scale the roof, cast his shadowmagic spells to conceal his identity, paralyze Tyndal with the wand, take the stone, escape through the window, and then down a rope or something into the courtyard. So whomever it was is good with heights.”

  “Not really the sort of thing you can test for,” Rondal mumbled.

  “But they also were canny enough to plan this thing, and then have the resources to do it. They had Talent,” she recited as she paced the scene of the crime. “They had some education, so that leaves out the first year students, perhaps the second years. And they weren’t idiots. They were good enough to realize you had put a trace on the gloves,” she reasoned, “so they abandoned them.”

  “Wouldn’t they have hidden the stone near to where they dropped the gloves?” asked Rondal.

  “Nowhere near where they hid the stone,” Tyndal said, shaking his head.

  “You’re right,” she nodded. “They would not have taken the chance. So they hid the stone first, abandoned the empty wand, marked gloves and incriminating cloak, wandered away . . . and then they took the potion. They were gone by the time you two arrived in the courtyard.

  “That means they only had fifteen minutes to stash the stone – somewhere – and get back to wherever he was supposed to be . . . in time to forget everything and not end up wandering around the campus aimlessly.”

  “That would arouse suspicion,” agreed Rondal. “So where could they have hidden the stone?”

  “Pretty much anywhere,” admitted Estasia. “And there are a dozen different entrances to the various towers as well as balconies and such. Whoever this thief is, he’s nimble. They could have easily gotten back inside without notice. Or hidden in one of the outbuildings.”

  “So that helps us . . . not at all,” groaned Tyndal.

  “No,” Rondal said, evenly, “it actually tells us quite a bit about our thief. Look at the specialized equipment he had. That wand isn’t something you can buy at the student canteen! And those gloves are lightly enchanted, too, for grip, and they’re specially made. Far beyond the scope of a student. Someone else would have to provide them.”

  “So he was unlikely to be working alone, if he was a student,” Tyndal said, nodding. It made sense.

  “He wasn’t poor, or his backer wasn’t. And he was smart and sophisticated enough to anticipate us using some psychomantic method of avoiding even a truth-telling. If you don’t remember doing something, you can’t lie about it.”

  “So he has knowledge of shadowmagic, alchemy – herbalism – and warmagic—the paralysis spell, remember?”

  “That was a wand of undetermined origins,” Tyndal reminded her. “And not, strictly-speaking, a warmagic spell. It does have other uses. Unless you learned its origins,” he added hopefully.

  “No,” she said, sadly. “I examined it with Master Indan. It was a basic
one-use spell. Whoever did it didn’t leave enough of a trace to get a signature. Professional.”

  “But that still indicates a lot of resources – consider how much such a thing must cost, if they didn’t make it? Add that to this expensive forgetting potion. And the expensive sedative that lured me to sleep. And the enchanted cloak that must have taken someone a year to make. That is someone who has a lot of coin in their purse. But yeah, I guess this thief has a clever brain, too. Or his partner does.”

  “That’s actually likely. I doubt any of the boys here would have the skills, much less the brains, to undertake such an enterprise on their own.”

  “I beg to differ, milady,” Rondal said, shaking his head. “These are some of the smartest—”

  “Smart,” she interrupted, “but unsophisticated. If you were a half-trained student mage, would you consider trying to imperil your future, not to mention your life, by daring to steal the witchstone of one of the first and greatest knights magi?”

  “I am a half-trained student mage,” Rondal countered, a little sourly. “And no, I wouldn’t try to steal a witchstone . . . unless I knew what it was really capable of.”

  “No, of course—hey, you think I’m great?” Tyndal asked, confused. That was unexpected. And welcome. He made note of the interest, as the Laws of Love suggested he do.

  “Enough other people do so that you have that reputation,” Estasia said, coolly. “It’s what people believe, not what actually is, that matters in a case like this.”

  “Ouch!” Rondal said, wincing on his fellow apprentice’s behalf. Tyndal ignored the jab. He knew she liked him.

  “She’s right,” Tyndal sighed. “On parchment, I’m not a guy you’d want to mess with unless you were very good.”

  “On parchment,” conceded Rondal. “But there was a lot of forethought here. Someone had to give you the Bardain. Someone had to watch where you went. Someone had to prepare to rob you. And it’s possible – if not likely – that the thief handed off the prize to the confederate before taking the Lanlinyeir. Or stashed it along the way.”

  “That would save a lot of time,” agreed Tyndal. “If the thief didn’t have to worry about holding the stone, then they’d have ample time to get back to . . . wherever they were supposed to be.”